


In the Hands of a Warrior

by Chanonvic



Category: DCU (Comics), Green Arrow (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, First Time Writing Oliver Queen Be Gentle, Gen, I Unironically Love Writing Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-10 22:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17435093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanonvic/pseuds/Chanonvic
Summary: For five beautiful seconds, he waited for his partner to save him -- to throw him a lifeline, tackle him out of the air, anything. It only dawned on him that no one was coming when he passed a flagstaff on the way down.





	In the Hands of a Warrior

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Antivigilante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antivigilante/gifts).



> Prompt: Write for at least 400 words about a conversation, a crutch, a full moon, and a door. Focus on creating a compelling setting.  
> Antivigilante's prompt: "Write me a short angst piece for DC. Something gritty and heartwrenching."
> 
> Welp, I certainly didn't compel anyone with my setting description, nor did I focus on doors too much, but gritty and heart-wrenching I can do. And 400 words? Child's play.

For a hair's breadth of a second Ollie worried the crutch wouldn't materialize, too, and he sighed in relief when the awkward thing caught his weight just as he started to tip forward. Then his heart sank into the familiar (and honestly welcome) rut of bitterness toward said crutch. He found that if he focused on that feeling, he could ignore the tightening in his chest, the pain in his knee dulled to a throb by ibuprofen, basically the reason he was in this mess to begin with. If he thought hard enough on only the present, he could forget _it_.

 

The tactic, as unhealthy as Dinah would insist it was if he actually called her, was working. It replaced the swoop of adrenaline in his veins borne by vigilante violence he craved, and in his tacit boredom as he hobbled around his apartment, Ollie thought up all the puns and jokes he could make at the crutch's expense. It sure beat the guilt.

 

But that week of recovery had been sheer bliss compared to what he knew lay ahead, and he was fairly certain that wasn't the painkillers talking. Sure, his apartment was stockpiling food scraps and dirty clothes from the abnormally prolonged presence of its sole inhabitant, and he was perpetually caught between wanting to pace for something to do and collapsing onto his sofa from the pain in his knee and ache in his shoulder from supporting half his weight on the wrong joint. But walking around the Watch Tower avoiding everything that could possibly remind him of _it_? Pure torture.

 

Ollie knew he was off to a bad start when he rounded the corner and caught the tails of an over-long black cape disappearing through a pair of automatic doors. He paused to wait for a shudder to pass through him as he suppressed his memories. Once he was sure that Batman was well on his way to wherever the fuck he went on the Watch Tower before meetings, Ollie continued through that same pair of doors. The metal walls were cooler than he remembered, and he hadn't ever noticed how wide the corridor was. The lights were too bright, Ollie realized as he blinked to readjust his vision. The sound of his off-beat hobbling reverberated off the nooks of the wall, reminding him of just how alone he was.

 

Ollie stopped and shook his head, abruptly ending that thought before it could anchor. If he could just focus on what he came here to do, he won't have to think about it. Of course, that also meant avoiding everyone who would ask him about it -- namely Dinah, Clark, and Wally. If Bruce weren't so thematically linked to the issue in the first place, the archer wouldn't mind hanging out with the cape and enjoying the brooding silence. So he settled for hoping to avoid any company, which only half defeated the purpose of coming to the Tower.

 

Ollie made it all the way to the armory (he refused to call it its other name), which meant that he had stumbled his way down the rest of the corridor, into an elevator, and through the bridge without being seen or bothered. In the back of his mind, he knew J'onn or Bruce had already caught him on surveillance, but he preoccupied himself with praising whatever good karma he'd managed to rack up lately.

 

Of course, all good things had to end eventually -- he could write a book on the subject. He was leaning against an open drawer of ammunition (rubber bullets, smoke pellets, arrows, the like) so that he could test the tension in a crossbow with both hands. He heard the clacking of armored heels well before Diana was in speaking range, and he took the time in between to admire her confidence. She didn't skulk or sneak about like many of her comrades; she understood the merits of stealth perfectly well, and could execute a covert op like the best of them, but what did a warrior demigoddess need to fear ordinarily?

 

"Ollie," she said when she was close enough. She lay a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "You do know that Zatanna could probably take care of that for you, right?" She quirked an eyebrow and nodded slowly toward his knee.

 

"What, this?" Ollie said with a smirk. "Hardly noticed it." He aimed the bow at some distant target and pulled the trigger, testing the recoil.

 

"In any case, I'm glad that you're going to have to take it easy for a little while," Diana continued. "You're used to having someone watch your back, so you'll _have_ to be more careful now."

 

Ollie bristled, and his finger got caught in the trigger, causing it to jam. He hissed a curse as he withdrew it and slammed the crossbow back into its slot on the wall. "Don't," he warned, wagging a finger at Diana.

 

"But it's true," the Amazon continued. "It's been a while since you worked solo -- your injury is proof of that."

 

"Diana -- just don't." Ollie knew how pathetic he looked scrabbling for his crutch so that he could hobble away from the woman who could fucking _fly_ but he needed to escape. If there was one thing he could be grateful of Diana for, it's that she didn't follow him.

 

The stress of moving as quickly and awkwardly as he dared forced his heart rate up a few beats, and that was almost distraction enough from the clenching in his chest and throat. It was hard enough being here, couldn't Diana see that? The woman was candid, he knew, but never tactless, which made her incisive remarks all the more unwelcome...and true.

 

Ollie kept his head ducked low as he staggered back out through the bridge to who knew where. He thought back to what Diana said, to last week. He'd been eager, too much so, to get out of his own head and into some trouble. It was times like those that made him think the world should be grateful he and the others were on its side. As destructive as each super-powered foe and nemesis they took down was, nothing quite edged out the caustic attitude of a brooding hero.

 

Anyway, that Green Arrow hadn't been thinking straight was an understatement. He leapt out of cover too soon, overestimated his ability to take out all the armed goons in the warehouse, didn't chase the head honcho quickly enough. By the time he made it to the roof, the baddie was already tossing the briefcase into a helicopter and scrambling to get in after it. The bird took off, its blades chopping the air too much to levy a shot at it. So Arrow did the next best thing: he jumped after it. He managed to grab onto the rung and hang on for a few blocks before Mr. Gang Leader got wise and swiped at him with a combat knife. When that got boring, the guy shoved an automatic rifle into his face, forcing Green Arrow to let go and plummet to the Star City streets. For five beautiful seconds, he waited for his partner to save him -- to throw him a lifeline, tackle him out of the air, anything. It only dawned on him that no one was coming when he passed a flagstaff on the way down. He shot an anchor at it and swung through a window to safety. If he were being fair, a sprained knee wasn't the worst he could have crawled away with.

 

So, there. He glanced over to his crutch, living proof that Diana was right -- he couldn't do this alone. He shouldn't have to. He screwed his eyes shut and huffed a sigh before moving on.

 

Minutes later, Ollie found himself on the observation deck. He leaned against the railing and watched some of his comrades mill about, scowling despite himself at some of the teens. Only the feel of the crutch beside him kept him from searching for glimpses of red below. Eventually, his gaze drifted up, through the wide, stainless glass, and out to the silver moon. He couldn't remember the last time he just watched it, when last he saw it full. In his defense, his nighttime activities made the revealing light of the celestial body more his enemy than ally, but up here, floating above the cares of the world, he could appreciate it. He wondered if he was doomed to take all for granted until he was closer but still, invariably, out of reach.

 

"Meeting's in a few," Zatanna said suddenly from behind him.

 

He tossed her a smile over his shoulder. "I know. Thanks."

 

Rather than leave, she eased back against the rail, too, and folded her arms. "Something on your mind, Queen?"

 

"You are now," Ollie replied, giving the sorceress a sweeping look.

 

Zatanna snorted a laugh. "If you say so." She nodded toward his injured knee. "So when are you gonna let me take a look at that?"

 

"It's not as bad as it looks," Ollie replied, waving his hand dismissively. "I think I'll keep it."

 

He pretended not to notice Zatanna's face softening, instead looking straight ahead at the moon again, though this time with much less reverence. "You're punishing yourself," she said softly. "It wasn't your fault, you know."

 

He wanted to snap at her, to plug his ears and childishly shout that he couldn't hear her until she got the message, or at least to walk away and leave her dumbfounded. But he just didn't have the energy. He'd already stormed off from Wonder Woman, for all the good it did his dignity, so maybe this was just divine retribution. "Whose fault is it, then?" he asked quietly, not expecting an answer. 'It's not your fault' was akin to 'my condolences,' a sentiment that just seemed appropriate to say when there wasn't anything _to_ say. A fleeting image of Jason's memorial drifted through his mind; _this_ was certainly not _that_ , but it sure as hell felt close enough.

 

"No one's," Zatanna replied. "These things happen." Her arms loosened so that she was really holding herself, and she hesitated before continuing. "Did you know...there was a time I thought I hated my father. I was much younger, and I resented him for bringing me into this lifestyle, for forcing me to live up to his name. I seriously considered running away, you know?"

 

Ollie nodded but more because he didn't know how to respond. He'd only reminisced about his parents through rose-tinted lenses -- being an orphan will do that to you -- so he hadn't experienced that adolescent angst. Furthermore, he never considered himself a parental figure, so Zatanna's juxtaposition was weird at best. Despite this logic, the tightening in his chest lessened a bit. It felt like he could breathe again. So things between him and Roy were...shitty at the moment. But that didn't have to be a permanent deal. And it _wouldn't_ , if he could do anything to help it.

 

"Thank you," he said to Zatanna with a small, but genuine, smile.

 

"Don't mention it," she said with a grin of her own. "Now will you let me heal you already?"

**Author's Note:**

> “Sons are a heritage from the LORD, children a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.” (Psalm 127:3-5)


End file.
